If I Should Stay
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
He’s staring at him.
Steve Harrington is staring at Eddie Munson.
The thing is, people don’t just stare at Eddie. Not for any reason that means anything good for Eddie. So when, completely unprompted, the fucking King of Hawkins High walks up to Eddie and says, “I need to talk to you,” Eddie thinks he’s entirely justified in the squeak he lets out.
“You? Talk? To me?” Wow. Great job, brain.
“Please,” Harrington whispers, and Eddie thinks desperately this must be some kind of joke, except he’s good at reading people, and he knows the desperation in Harrington’s eyes.
“Okay,” he says, stammers. “Um. There- there’s, behind the school, a, uh-”
“Table,” Harrington nods. “That works. Just…” he sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “Leave the lunchbox at home.”
Eddie’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Then what the fuck do you want with me, dude?”
“I can’t explain. Not here, not now. Just. Please. After school, okay?”
Eddie looks at him. Really looks, studies his face, understands the lines by his eyes, the tightness of his mouth. His heart thumps as he realizes. He’s scared. “Okay,” he says, and means it.
Eddie’s a man of his word, so after school he makes his way to the table, pausing when it comes into view. Harrington’s already there, sitting with his head in his hands. Eddie calls out from a couple of paces away. “You sure you don’t want anything from the lunchbox?”
Harrington jumps, hands up, eyes round. Relaxes a little when he sees Eddie. “No. I- I’m good. I can’t, actually.”
Eddie frowns. “What, like, a sports thing? No one’s gotta know, dude, I’ve never been busted, I can keep a secret.”
Steve gives him a half-smile. “No. It’s- it’s not a sports thing. Just… sit down? And promise to listen?”
“Okay,” Eddie says, because he knows how comforting it can be to just have someone there, and he’s not a dick; clearly Harrington’s going through something. Though why he approached Eddie, of all people, he doesn’t know.
“Okay,” Harrington repeats back, taking a breath before starting. “If I were to tell you I’m from the future, a future in which we know each other, how would you ask me to prove it?”
Eddie blinks. He was ready for a lot of things, but not time travel. “Um. I dunno, man, I haven’t really thought about it.”
He takes another deep breath. “Can I try?”
“To- to prove you’re from the future?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie laughs, a little hysterically. “Man, where the fuck do I get the strain you’re on?”
He blinks. “What?”
Eddie gestures at him. “Come on, man, you have to admit you’re not really making sense here.”
Harrington sighs. Takes another breath. Says, “You live with your uncle Wayne. Your father taught you to hot wire cars when you were nine. You listen to Dio and Metallica and Ozzy Osbourne but your favorite song is I Will Always Love You, by Dolly Parton, because it was your mom’s favorite. The guitar pick you wear around your neck was hers. She taught you guitar. You love The Hobbit. Stop me when I’ve said enough.”
Eddie’s never been more scared in his life. “Listen, man, I dunno where you heard all that-”
“Eddie,” he says, implores, and digs something out of his pocket. Opens his hand to reveal a ring.
A ring Eddie already has on his finger.
“What the fuck,” Eddie whispers. Grabs for the ring before he can tell himself it’s a bad idea. Examines it, sees the dent from where his finger had gotten smashed in a door.
His hands start shaking.
“I’m from 1987,” Steve Harrington says, sure as anything. “And I’m trying to stop something terrible.”
“And what would that be?” Eddie asks, feeling strangely detached from the whole thing.
“Your death,” Steve Harrington says, still sure as anything.
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price is one of the more subtle ones. always looking out for you, always caring. he brings you coffee on late nights and sets up a little desk in his office for you. he always keeps you close, making sure you're comfortable.
price is touchy, but only enough to be slightly questionable. a hand on your shoulder that drifts up to the back of your neck, all while he praises you for being such a hard worker. he deliberately makes his voice lower and growly, loving the shivers that run through your body. he teases you in ways that arent entirely obvious, toying with you like a cat with its prey.
and those especially late nights? when the two of you are all alone, well into the 'ams'? he can't resist being a little bolder. standing behind you, squeezing your hips, your waist, your thighs.
he pulls your ass back against him, giving into his most perverted urges. all while nosing your neck, breath brushing the back of your neck as he speaks, “so pretty... tell me sweetheart, know how fucking lucky he is?"
it's the little whine you make, all too flustered by the musky, masculine scent of his cologne, feeling too overwhelmed to respond. your little shaky voice makes the tent in his pants harder and harder, pressing firmly into against you.
price can't help himself, finally giving in, his hand sliding down your tummy, slipping into your pants. his other arm wraps around your waist, corded muscle keeping you pinned flat. you can feel each ridge and bump of his muscle behind you, how easily he could bend you over the desk, take whatever he wants.
he doesn't touch you fully, not yet, just grazing his fingers over the band of your panties. his touch is torturous, slowly descending down, fingers light and teasing as they press over your swollen clit. “tell me… does he make you this wet? this desperate?” he laughs, condescending and breathy, "can he even make you cum doll?"
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